realized the opportunity that the noise of the landing helo gave him. He knew from the windows that he was in the east wing of the building, so he moved into the corridor, turned to his left, and began hurrying as fast as possible, staying out of the dusty sunlight as he went.
* * *
• • •
Six men climbed out of the Airbus H145 helicopter from London and began walking quickly towards the west wing entrance of the hospital.
Their eyes scanned the entire property as they moved, and the man in the center of the group did not seem pleased at all about the surroundings.
Roger Fox was thirty-nine years old, with reddish brown hair styled neatly and a trim goatee. He told people he’d been educated at Princeton, in the United States, and he wore a charcoal suit made by Savile Row’s Henry Poole along with a Rolex Cosmograph Daytona.
Four men in his security component carried submachine guns under their light jackets, but they did their best to hide the weaponry as they advanced on the building, unsure about this location and its proximity to wandering eyes.
The fifth man in the group was Jon Hines, Fox’s personal bodyguard. As always Hines walked just behind him, a half step back. At six feet, nine inches tall, he wore two hundred sixty pounds of sinewy muscle like an athlete.
Like a weapon.
Hines was English, forty-one years old, and a former boxer. He carried an FN pistol on his hip under his jacket, and he knew how to use it, but all seven of the men he’d killed in his life to date he’d done with his bare hands, and he’d never once drawn his gun in a fight, simply because he’d never seen the need.
* * *
• • •
Anthony Kent stood in the doorway of the west wing; he waved the group over to him. As the group converged the Englishman looked around, trying to identify the man he’d spoken with on the phone, although he had no idea what he looked like.
It was hard to take his eyes off the massive frame of muscle in a suit looming just behind the smaller man in the goatee, but when the smaller man extended a hand, Kent looked to him and extended his own. “Mr. Fox?”
Fox shook Kent’s hand without smiling. In a British accent he said, “Yes. What the hell is this place?”
“It’s safe,” Kent said. “Been comin’ here for years for a wee bit of quiet.”
Fox stepped with Kent into the building. His men bracketed them front to back.
“The prisoner?”
Kent said, “We have him inside, haven’t told him anything.”
“Has he offered anything?”
“No. He’s scared.”
“Good,” Fox said, and he pushed past the smaller Englishman. His men did the same, and Kent followed.
“Have to say it, sir. I was worried we’d been workin’ for the fucking Russians. Nice to see that a proper Englishman is in charge. Don’t much care for the bloody Russians who’ve taken over London with their flash and their mess.”
Fox made no reply.
Kent went ahead, directing them through the west wing into the large room with the stage. The entourage walked up to the three in the center of the room standing over the hooded prisoner. Fox did not acknowledge the three, only reached over and yanked the bag off Dirk Visser’s head.
The man looked up at him, sweat dripping from his face.
“It’s him,” Fox said, then added, “Kent, take your men out into the corridor. I’d quite like to speak with my new friend here alone.”
The four Englishmen did as ordered. This was the man paying their wages, after all.
When the British were gone, Fox looked down at Visser. “I’m from London, and you might not yet know why I am here. I will tell you what I am not here to do. I am not here to fuck about. We know CIA picked you up in Luxembourg, which means they know you are the banker tied to a particular account at your bank that is of interest to us.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Visser said, helpfully. “The British or the Americans have a mole in my bank. It’s the only thing that makes sense. They identified the account and recognized I was the one maintaining it, converting amounts to Bitcoin and then transferring them to the U.S.”
“What have you told the CIA in the time you’ve been their captive?”
“Nothing! I haven’t said a word. And I won’t say anything. Not to the Americans, the British. I’m just a banker, I’ve